


Laying Down the Bass Line

by calathea



Series: Hitting the Right Notes [3]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calathea/pseuds/calathea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week in Joe's life: badly edited videos set to Barry White, dying mermaids, Star Wars, far more ABBA than you might expect, and Pete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laying Down the Bass Line

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to elucreh for beta, sociofemme and miznarrator for read-throughs, jamjar for helping with the music choices and letting me steal an awesome line from her, and my dad for owning ABBA Gold and making me rip it to MP3 for him last year.

p&gt;  
Monday morning, Joe crawled out of bed and booted up his laptop to find Pete had e-mailed him overnight. Shaking his head over the time-stamp (3:13 am) he opened it.

_guitar ho lol_, Pete's message said.

Joe sighed, and very warily clicked on the video that was attached to the e-mail. Barry White's voice began to murmur from the speakers. _I've heard people say that too much of anything is not good for you..._

Joe covered his face with his hands and watched through the spaces between his fingers as a shakily edited series of videos began to play in which Joe handed over his guitar to a series of dudes in bands, starting with Gerard, who gave the Joe on screen a huge, dorky grin. Next up was Nick Wheeler, who looked a little surprised. There was a whole montage with each of the Panic guys, even Spencer, who just held his guitar for him while Joe stripped off his t-shirt in a dusty venue parking lot. Greta gave him a come-hither smile that Joe couldn't remember noticing at the time as she accepted his guitar. Gabe smirked and nudged his sunglasses down to look at Joe over the top of them. Sisky scuffed a foot along the floor almost shyly before he took hold of Joe's guitar.

_I feel the change, somethin' moves, I scream your name..._ Barry White crooned, before cutting off abruptly when the video ended.

Joe took his hands away from his face. _coulda been a sex god_, he sent back. _u have no video skills_.

Then he crawled back into bed for a nap.

* * *

Tuesday evening, Joe was sitting on the floor of the living room of Frank's apartment, noodling around on his acoustic guitar and listening to most of his band argue heatedly with most of My Chem about Metallica.

"Gimme that for a sec," said Frank, stretching out a hand for Joe's guitar, intent on proving some guitar-related point.

Joe was just about to hand it over when he saw out of the corner of his eye Pete's evil little smirk, the one he got when he was about to open his mouth and say something truly appalling, something that everyone would remember _forever_, bring up in front of his mother, and tell Rolling Stone magazine. Joe froze. Pete's mouth opened.

Joe snatched his guitar back out of Frank's reach. Frank, who had been stretching out for it from his seat on the sofa, overbalanced and fell headfirst onto the floor with a crash.

"What the fuck?" Frank yelped, righting himself, over everyone's surprised laughter. He kicked Joe's ankle. Pete's braying _hee-haw_ of a laugh carried on while Ray hurriedly restrained Frank, and Joe hitched himself hastily along the floor until he was safely on the other side of Bob's legs.

"You have rug burn on your forehead," Mikey told Frank. He aimed his cellphone and took a photo.

Frank blinked at the flash. "Fucker!" he said, "What are you doing?"

"Sending a photo to Jamia," Mikey said, placidly, fingers clicking over the tiny keys of his Sidekick. Frank dove for him.

Everyone else turned to look at Joe. "What?" he said, defensively.

"Pick-tease," said Andy, sighing.

* * *

"D'you want me to take you straight home?" Pete asked on Wednesday night, as they drove through shadowy LA streets towards Joe's apartment after a long day in the studio. He looked over at Joe with a hopeful expression. "In 'n' Out? Milkshake?"

Joe shrugged, and then nodded. "Yeah, sure, dude, whatever," he said, and poked half-heartedly at Pete's too-complicated car stereo to find a radio station he liked. All he could find was a guy talking about bees and something that was maybe a polka. Or a mazurka. Joe was never sure what the difference was. He turned the radio off again.

Pete's phone went off just as they got to a busy intersection. "That's Patrick," Pete said."Can you get it?"

"Hey," said Joe, obediently answering the phone. "He's still driving. Did you know your ring-tone on his phone is _Super Trouper_?"

Patrick sighed. "Andy's is _Fernando_," he said. "I had it stuck in my head for an hour this morning. Bob threatened to kill me."

"Don't start singing it now!" a distant voice yelled at Patrick's end of the line. "I can only hear about the distant drums so many times before I snap."

Joe laughed. "Do I want to know what mine is?" he asked, grinning over at Pete. Pete made his _grrr_ face at him.

"Nope," said Patrick firmly. He paused, and then, missing casual by a long way said: "You going with him for a milkshake?"

Pete looked over at him. Joe shrugged back. "Yeah."

Patrick was quiet for a moment. "He seem okay to you?" he asked. There had been a black cloud hovering over Pete for a few days, and there was no time for a break in their recording schedule. Patrick took Pete's mental health very seriously, but even he couldn't magic a week off while Pete got his head straight. Joe glanced over at Pete's profile, dimly lit by streetlights.

"Yeah," Joe said again, and Pete, now driving sedately down a wide street, reached out and poked him in the ribs.

"What's he saying?" Pete said. He raised his voice. "Hey, Pattycake, you calling for tips on how to please your man? Remember: suction good, teeth bad!"

Joe could hear Patrick's eye-rolling sigh even over Pete's cackling. There was a low rumble in the background at Patrick's end of the line, and then Patrick said, half-muffled, "Pete wants to give me blow job technique tips."

The loud comment and laughter that greeted this made Joe wince. "I could have lived without the news you are already _just that good_," Joe informed Patrick when he came back on the line.

"Singing gives you good breath control," Patrick said, unconcernedly, "You think I wanted to listen to that guy in, hmm, was it Arizona or Nevada? With the pink guitar and the thing with the hair? He told me four times how great you were in bed."

Joe squinted. "Utah," he said, after a moment. "I remember because at the time I was thinking that he was kind of unexpected in a state full of Mormons." He broke off to clutch at the dashboard. "Whoa! Shit! What?"

He turned to stare at Pete, who had pulled into the In 'n' Out parking lot with a jerk and stamped on the brakes. Pete reached out for his phone. "You're sitting there talking about blowjobs and Mormons and Patrick called _me_," Pete said, making a face at Joe again. "If anyone gets to talk to Patrick about kinky Mormons it should be me."

He snatched the phone out of Joe's hand. "Why do you and Bob need to know about kinky Mormons?" he demanded, sliding out of the car, "Have you got one there? It's not Brendon, is it? Because he told me he was moving on from threesomes, and I will have to kill him if he lied and just isn't telling me about his sexploits."

Joe jumped out too, heading towards the door of the In 'n Out. Pete wandered along behind, now in low-voiced conversation with Patrick. Joe waited, one hand on the door handle, watching Pete as he fidgeted on the edge of the pool of light spilling through the windows, kicking idly at a plastic straw on the ground. Pete looked up, catching Joe looking, and grinned at him suddenly. "I gotta go, Patrick, Joe needs his milkshake," he said, "Oh yeah? I know who your better thing to do is. Ha! No, don't tell him that, I want to actually be allowed into your apartment again. Okay. Yeah, tomorrow."

Pete clicked his phone shut and walked up to the door. He threw his arm over Joe's shoulders. "I think we should get some food," he said, "You look like a man who needs a piece of cow sandwiched between bread, and I can eat your fries for you."

"And a milkshake?" Joe asked, letting Pete manoeuvre him through the door.

Pete fluttered his eyelashes at him. "You are the best date ever," he said.

Pete, typically, waited until Joe was just about to order at the counter before he spoke again. "Oh, and Patrick said Frank told Bob to tell you he's _hurt_," he said, casually.

Joe rattled off the order to the woman at the desk, and handed her a twenty-dollar bill. "Frank?" he said. "Why?"

"He didn't get to, uh," Pete waggled his eyebrows lasciviously at Joe, "'Play your guitar' and he _still_ got rug burn. He said he's going to make Gerard write a sad song about how he doesn't love you any more."

"I think Gerard already wrote that song," Joe said, absently, accepting his change with a smile.

"They're going to change the lyrics," Pete said, waving a hand. "So that when you play it backwards it says 'Joe Troh is a ho'."

Joe scrunched up his face in a thoughtful expression and selected a straw from the dispenser. "_Oh a si Hort Oj_," he tried to sing. "I don't know, man, I'm not sure even Gerard could get away with singing that. It kind of sounds like I'm singing about sea horses."

Pete snorted with laughter, and wandered over to a table to start texting Mikey with ocean life lyrics. Joe collected the milkshakes and his meal and ambled after him, He sat down, passed Pete's fries over, and tried to think of rhymes for octopus on demand.

* * *

"Is Pete pissed at me?" Bob asked abruptly on Thursday night. Joe was hanging out at Patrick's apartment playing video games, mostly because Pete had taken off without a word at the end of recording, forgetting he'd driven Joe in and promised to buy him dinner.

Joe tried to force his car on screen to swerve around the corner harder by leaning that way himself. It didn't help. He crashed. "Damn," he said, and watched as Bob rocketed past him on screen. "Why would Pete be pissed at you?"

Bob half shrugged, concentrating on the next turn. Patrick, who was puttering around the apartment plugged into his iPod, started belting out what Joe vaguely recognized as an Aretha Franklin song. Bob glanced over at him, then turned back to stare fixedly at the screen.

"Oh! Because you're hiding Patrick from him in your bed? Nah," said Joe, and grinned at Bob. "He's just having a week. You know Pete. His brain chemistry's all screwed up sometimes."

Bob's face didn't really change, but Joe thought he looked relieved. There was something about his shoulders, and the way he was gripping the game controller. All he said though was: "New game?"

Joe nodded. Definitely relieved. Bob liked to win and he'd been crushing Joe in the last game. "How'd your recording go today?" he asked as the game loaded.

"Ray and Gee argued for like two hours over new lyrics," Bob said, rolling his eyes, "Gee's suddenly on this whole like… aquatic thing."

Joe dropped his controller. "Aquatic?" he said, fumbling to pick it up again. On screen the start of the race counted down with an annoying fanfare.

Bob shrugged. "Mermaids gasping for air because of chemical spills," he said, like that kind of thing was normal conversation. Maybe it was for My Chem. "Something that sounded like male pregnancy, maybe? I don't know. I stopped listening."

Joe groaned and let his head thump back into the sofa cushions. "I'm going to _kill _ Pete," he said.

Patrick wandered over, pulling out his earphones. "Can you wait until we've recorded the bass on today's track?" he asked, dropping into an armchair and grinning at them both.

Bob reached out and tapped Patrick's ankle. "Better get it done quick," he said, "If it's Pete who's responsible for the dying mermaid thing, Ray's going to strangle him."

Patrick blinked at him. "Oh, you guys too? Pete sent me pages of underwater metaphors overnight."

Joe crashed into a wall on-screen. "Just promise me you won't write any songs about sea horses," he said, urgently.

Patrick smirked, and Joe let his controller drop again to cover his face with his hands.

"You have lost," the mechanical voice on the game informed him. Joe whimpered.

* * *

"You're evil and a jackass," Joe informed Pete's voicemail late Thursday morning, and the cab driver looked at him disapprovingly in the rear view mirror. Joe ignored him. Pete _was_ evil and a jackass. He'd picked up Joe this morning and taken him to the studio, and then vanished without a word.

Joe thought about leaving some more insults, but then just hung up instead. He paged through his contact list, looking for someone to call and bitch at. He'd left Patrick, Bob and Andy in the studio doing geeky drum stuff. Bob had escaped from My Chem's on-going dying-mermaid-related feud to join them in the Fall Out Boy studio. Apparently Gerard had started drawing nothing but women floating limply in an oily sea in protest at Ray's continued resistance to the mermaid song. Frank was egging him on. Ray was talking about taking a hit out on Pete. Mikey, who had started the whole thing, was just watching and occasionally taking photos of Ray's enraged hair to send to Alicia. Bob apparently found it soothing to stand around nodding thoughtfully while Andy and Patrick argued about snares.

Joe had been kicked out of the studio the second time his snores got louder than the drums they were tuning.

He had half-decided to call his mom, even though it would mean hearing (again) about his cousin David's wedding plans and how the bride's mother was wrong, so very wrong about everything, when the cab pulled up outside his building. Paying the cabbie, he frowned at the huddled form sitting on the steps outside, hands tucked inside the sleeves of a striped hoodie.

"Why am I a jackass?" Pete asked, as Joe approached. He squinted up at Joe, and Joe wondered for a second when they all got old enough to have laughter lines.

"You stranded me at the studio," Joe said, sitting down next to him. "Again."

Pete just shrugged. "Well, yeah," he said. "It's all Andy today, right?"

Joe nodded. "Bob came over. They were into the cymbal porn when I left."

Pete laughed. "Oh baby, crash it harder," he moaned loudly. One of Joe's neighbours stared at them as she walked down the stairs past them. Joe just smiled back. You got used to shocking innocent bystanders early when you hung out with Pete.

He stood up. "Wanna come up?" he asked, pulling his keys. "I'm going to watch Star Wars."

Pete jumped to his feet. "I want to be Luke. And Darth Vader," he said, brushing dust off the seat of his pants.

"You don't do the Vader voice right," Joe objected, leading the way up the stairs.

"Fuck off," Pete said, amiably, "Yours isn't any better. You just sound like my great-uncle when he needs his inhaler."

"Shut up. Mine fucking rocks," Joe said, and pressed the call button for the elevator.

"Fuck off," said Pete, again, his grin spreading even wider.

Joe grinned back. "Jackass," he said, as the elevator doors opened.

The group of older women in the elevator didn't seem very pleased to be trapped with two dudes comparing their Vader breathing for twelve floors. Joe just waved to them when he and Pete got out on his floor. One of them laughed and waved back.

* * *

They were both still on his sofa in the early hours of Friday. Joe was feeling extremely mellow from a combination of the complete original Star Wars trilogy, the best pizza he'd been able to find yet in LA and really good weed. Pete was on the phone to Patrick, who had apparently just left the studio after an epic day of drumming.

"He said it sounds awesome," Pete said, hanging up, and Joe smiled at him lazily. "They don't want us 'til late tomorrow though. Andy is crashing with him tonight."

Joe nodded. "I need to practice before I go in to the studio," he said, stretching out his arms along the back of the sofa. "Want to stay here? I have a bass, we can go over some stuff tomorrow. In the morning. Later in the morning. Whatever."

Pete blinked at him, and then started to grin slyly. "Why, Joseph Trohman, are you offering to let me play your guitar?" he said, and he slid along the sofa to press up tight against Joe's side.

Joe laughed, startled. "Dude, you can play my guitar _anytime_," he said, leering comically.

To his surprise, Pete's body went rigid against him, like he'd been shocked, and Pete's breath seem to hitch. Joe blinked, and Pete relaxed again just as suddenly.

"Yeah?" was all Pete said. "And here I thought you were just a heart-breaker."

"Well, that too, of course," Joe said, his pot-fuzzy mind scrabbling to keep up.

Pete moved away again. "I think I'll go home," he said. "Your sofa is good for watching TV but it sucks for sleeping."

"But," said Joe, but Pete was already up, patting his pockets for his car keys, and Joe stopped.

"Two tomorrow, okay?" he said, business-like all of a sudden, moving towards the door.

Joe nodded. "Yeah, okay," he said, and followed Pete to the door. "You can stay, you know. The bed's big enough."

Pete smiled at him, but shook his head. "Nah," he said, and hugged Joe swiftly before letting himself out.

Joe puzzled over the whole exchange until he fell asleep. He thought about talking to Pete again at the studio, but when he got there Pete was already bouncing around cheerfully, his recent moodiness apparently forgotten even though his eyes looked like he'd had less sleep than usual. In the end, Joe just shook his head and lost himself in the painfully slow process of getting his part recorded just right.

* * *

Saturday turned out to be one of those days so perfect that it made Joe wonder how this could possibly be his life. Both bands had a day off from recording scheduled, and for once Ray and Patrick were pleased enough with what they'd done that week to let them take it. They all ended up drifting over to Pete's house, a spontaneous party of just the two bands and the people closest to them. Everyone lazed about in Pete's back yard, forming small, fluid groups. There was a soft buzz of chatter, broken frequently by laughter, and Pete had brought out a battered acoustic, so there was always just a little music. Right now, Patrick had the guitar, and he was frowning thoughtfully as he played the blues. Bob was lying on the grass next to him with his eyes closed. While Joe watched, he touched Patrick's knee and said something to make Patrick laugh, his fingers still sure on the strings. Joe grinned and looked away.

Ray and Gerard had somehow resolved their mermaid angst and were now bickering over comics. Frank and Pete were splashing about in the pool. Mikey was telling Andy and Alicia a complicated story that involved a lot of arm waving and laughter. Other groups were scattered around by the pool and in the kitchen.

Joe lay on his back and smiled up at the blue sky and the clouds passing over, until Pete came over and dripped on him and he had to give chase and exact retribution.

It was late when everyone left, reluctant to let the day go. They'd ended up reminiscing for hours, sprawling out in the grass and playing "remember when", making each other laugh. Slowly, though, people began to leave, until Pete and Joe were left alone.

Joe sat down on a lawn chair while Pete went to the door to say goodbye to Patrick, and picked up the guitar. He played a few notes, and smiled over at Pete when he heard him come back out of the house.

"Hey," he said. "You kiss Patrick goodnight?"

Pete grinned at him. "I didn't want Bob to hit me," he admitted. "So I just groped Patrick's ass instead while he wasn't looking."

Joe snorted with laughter, and Pete came around to stand in front of him. The lights from the back of the house left his face half in shadow.

"What's up?" Joe said, surprised by Pete's serious expression. His fingers fidgeted over the strings, playing chords almost at random.

"Remember when you were seventeen," Pete said, and Joe laughed, interrupting him.

"Dude, I try to forget when I was seventeen," he said, grinning up at Pete. "It wasn't pretty."

Pete crouched down beside him. "Remember when you were seventeen," he said again, and Joe's fingers stilled on the strings at the tone of Pete's voice. "You hit on me, and I said no."

"I hit on everyone when I was seventeen and everyone said no," Joe said, trying to keep his voice light. "That's one of the reasons I try to forget it. _Epic_ levels of crash and burn."

Pete sighed loudly. "You're making my big romantic speech very hard here, you fucker," he said, almost laughing, and Joe almost wanted to laugh too.

He opened his eyes wide instead. "I'm not your guy for making romantic speeches to," Joe told him. "You should save that for people who haven't seen you deciding whether you can wear your underwear for another day or not."

The smile on Pete's face stretched a little, became a little more real. Joe stood up, and Pete stood up with him. A long moment stretched out between them, awkward and hopeful all at once.

"Wanna play my guitar?" Joe asked, finally, his own grin feeling silly and plastic on his face. He held it out to Pete by the neck.

Pete's hand reached out automatically to take it, and then he paused. "It's _my_ guitar," he objected. "I'm not sure if that counts."

Joe smirked. "Now who's ruining the big romantic moment?" he said, affectionately, and Pete barked out a laugh.

"We suck," he said.

Joe nodded. "Luckily for you, suction is good, remember?" he said. He jiggled the guitar in his hand. "Yes or no?"

Pete stepped in close and wrapped his hand over Joe's on the guitar. "Yes," he said, "Hell, yes."

* * *

Joe woke up first on Sunday. Pete was sprawled out face down in bed, a loose-limbed stretch of tan skin on white sheets. It would have been artistic if it hadn't been for the stupid tattoos, crazy sex hair and the way Pete was drooling.

Joe grinned anyway, and then slid out of the bed and wandered towards the kitchen for a glass of water. On the way, he caught sight of his phone on the kitchen counter, and scooped it up thoughtfully. He carried it back to the bedroom and leaned against the doorframe, thumbing through his contacts list until he had Pete's number highlighted.

He hit the call button.

Pete woke up somewhere around the second chorus, moaning and groping first towards the nightstand where he'd put his phone the night before, and then, more urgently, towards the space Joe had left beside him. He rolled over and half-sat up, leaning back on his elbows. His frown cleared when he saw Joe by the door.

"Why are you calling me?" Pete said, squinting and then rubbing a hand over his face. His voice was husky and cracked, and Joe hid a shiver by moving away from the door to walk over to the bed.

"I wanted to know what my ring tone was. You do know this song has pretty creepy lyrics, for ABBA?" Joe asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Pete collapsed back on to the bed. "You hadn't realized I'm a pretty creepy guy, for a rock star?" Pete asked, smirking.

Joe leaned over him. "True," he said, and ducked his head down to kiss Pete.

On the nightstand, Pete's phone buzzed and skittered while the music played. _Don't go wasting your emotion, lay all your love on me..._

THE E…

"No, seriously," Joe said, pulling away and fumbling for his phone, which he'd dropped on the floor. "I'm so not fucking you or anyone else with ABBA playing in the background."

Pete started to laugh, and when Joe finally got his fingers in working order and managed to end the call, he started to sing Dancing Queen until Joe shut him up again. Pete didn't object, though he did keep humming at totally inappropriate moments on and off for days, until Joe had developed a very unfortunate Pavlovian response. It wouldn't have mattered except then there was his Cousin David's wedding reception with the cheesy disco music… but that's another story.

THE END (for real, this time)

* * *


End file.
